“A Yankee can become an honorary Southerner, but a Southerner cannot become a Yankee, assuming any Southerner would want to.”
"you have fed me, you have saved me, Billy Graham and Martha White" - Brad Paisley
I was
born into one of those wild families. The ones that are the subjects of Toby
Keith songs, the ones that love America, guns, wrestling, and sweet tea. The
kind that has a reputation and rap sheet as long as the dusty roads that wind
through the Southwest Virginia Mountains. They were the Clines of Hogback Road.
And boy they are a proud bunch. A family of practical jokers. 8 kids raised
on hard work and Martha White flour. Going to maw-maw’s was a Sunday tradition.
When I was “knee high to a grasshopper” we’d go out to the ole farm where we’d
chase geese and memories. The ladies were inside, yapping about what was goin’
on in the holler. Me and my bro were outside. Because that’s where the men
were. The air was thick with the smell of cows and tobacco smoke. Between
smokes we’d play football. Long enough for the boys to fight and the men to get
tired, then it was back to Levi-Garrett for them and Mountain Dew for us. We
knew no other way. Commanding it all was Dorothy Jean Cline. She was a small
older lady with a voice as soft and smooth as the creek that ran through the
backside of the property. Every now and
again, when the humidity was as thick as her sawmill gravy; we’d load up in dad’s
truck, and drive through a creek to a little swimming hole. At my uncle Teddy’s
wedding, 2 other uncles threw me in…. It was here that I learned to swim, cuss,
and whittle. Every now and then we’d wet our lines, hoping to rope in a huge
fish, but typically I just skipped rocks and tried to hit beavers building dams
on the other side. As I sit in this busy coffee shop, avoiding eye contact with
a pretty redhead a few tables over, I begin to realize just how lucky I was to
grow up where I did, and how my heart longs to return there. As my friend
Bradford says, “Nostalgia is a dangerous thing.”
What I
remember the most about my Grandma is that she loved the Lord. You could see it
all over her weathered face. On Saturday nights, all the men would head off to the
dirt track to suck down Bud Lights and reminisce about the wild high school
days. When we were too young to go, we’d stay with Maw Maw, and she would watch
the Gaithers. Confession: I still have a soft spot in my heart for the Gaither
Vocal Band. Their music is goofy and silly, about as theologically deep as a
tissue box. But boy she loved them. She’d sing “The Old Rugged Cross” or “I
wanna stroll over Heaven with you” or my personal favorite “The Baptism of
Jesse Taylor”. I never knew it at the time, but she was planting gospel truths
in the hearts of her grandkids, watering them with every off pitch Gospel
soundtrack and Sunday dinner. You didn’t cuss in Dorothy’s kitchen. And
everyone knew it. I remember being at our trailer when I heard our Grandpa had
died. Mom was in the laundry room with Venita my aunt, it was the first time I’d
ever see either of them cry.
Maw Maw
moved to town after this. 613 Goolsby Ave now became a place where sinners in
screen print t-shirts would gather for Sunday dinner. Mom and the kids went to
church. Dad and my uncles always just met us over there. Church wasn’t their
thing unless it was Christmas or Easter. Some things never change. That tiny white house could barely contain
the huge family. The floors were soft and about to fall through. Trooper, the
boxer dog, was tied up outside. My uncle was usually asleep in the back room. The
soundtrack stayed the same, though Paw Paw was gone. Mark Lowry was playing on
the radio, singing “Mary did you know” or telling a goofy joke. While the
arrest records now extended to some of the grandkids, Maw Maw never treated us
like outcasts. She’d still talk about Jesus, and tell us to straighten up.
She got
sick and had to move in with my Aunt Misty and Uncle James. Life and burned
bridges separated most of us from one another. My parents divorced, I moved to
Tennessee, my bro to Texas, and left Virginia in the rear view. It was about a
year ago when I got a call that things had gotten pretty bad. I hadn’t seen her
in 6 years, but found out that she was only living about 35 minutes from where
I lived in Charlotte. A rush of emotions came over me as I drove to the
hospital. Would I recognize her? Would she recognize me? What do you say to
someone whose about to die? Will the other family members be there?
I
walked into the hospital and called my sister. She told me where to go and when
I walked into the room, it was as if I were a clumsy little boy walking into
the kitchen for more turkey and Mac and cheese. The whole family was standing
around, and everyone was laughing. The stories flowed like the budget rate
coffee being poured into Styrofoam cups. I walked in and hugged her. She was
lying down, and she still had that beautiful silver hair and bright smile I’d always
remembered. My mom came in with her own grandson. This was the first time Maw Maw
had seen her great grandson. There aren’t words in the English language that
could capture the joy on her face when she held that little one. The moment was
sweeter than pumpkin pie, the kind of thing Norman Rockwell would have painted.
As I looked around the room, at this saintly woman who was heading home to be
with her Lord, I couldn’t help but thank the Lord for his covenant of grace
that envelopes all his children.
Things
went from bad to worse fairly quickly. Her breathing was labored and we knew it
wouldn’t be long. She began to utter some words that could barely be understood.
When asked if she was sad, her reply rang deeper than any Gaither hymn ever
could. “I’m ready to be with Jesus, and I sure do miss y’alls daddy”. She knew
that when she crossed Jordan’s banks that she would be with her Lord. The lover
of her soul. As life left her body, we all just kind of looked around. We began
making the phone calls and funeral arrangements. Her final rest had been achieved.
The
funeral was a joyful occasion. A Heavy set, sweaty preacher talked of the most
saintly woman any of us had known. He sang a few of those Gaither hymns. My
brother, a cowboy, who was as mean as a rattlesnake had tears in his eyes. My
uncles, the rough and tumble men, with crooked smiles and crooked fingers, whom
life had taken a pretty hefty toll on stood crying. The earth lost a pretty
special woman, and heaven gained a faithful servant.
Baptism of Jesse Taylor:
